


Benefit of the Bargain

by Alona



Category: Scandal (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 18:24:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alona/pseuds/Alona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mellie takes an assignment and runs with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Benefit of the Bargain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [normativejean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/normativejean/gifts).



Mellie forgot the name of the town the moment she read it off the prompter. It’s too small to appear as more than a name on GoogleMaps; it’s too small for a library or a public school of its own. She assumes that by arriving this morning with a delegation of her staff and a sizable news crew in tow, she has nudged the town’s occupancy up some statistically significant fraction. 

This town, whatever it may lack, is the last stop on Mellie’s latest politically correct First Lady public interest tour, specially chosen because there is one thing it does have: a gun shop. A gun shop called Nelly’s Nibs, owned and for twenty-two years proudly operated by one Helen Bramwell, mother of four and grandmother of nine.

“Eleven, after Alice has her twins next month,” she says. Between them Mellie and Kimberly Mitchell have done away with her hesitancy in front of the camera. She is a folksy, unrefined star. 

“Does your family work in the store with you?” Mellie asks. 

“All of my kids have at one time or another. I taught them all to shoot. Steve, my youngest, he’s at community college now, but he still comes down to help me in his free time. The grandkids are starting to get in on it, too.” 

"It’s so wonderful that a small business can be the vehicle for family bonding,” Mellie gushes. She had a private word with Mrs. Bramwell before the filming started, so she’d know her cue. “My uncle had a collection of handguns. He taught me to shoot. I used to beg to be allowed to visit him so I could practice." A wistful sigh. "Sometimes I wish I could find the time to let off a few rounds."

"We have a range out back," says Mrs. Bramwell. There’s a bit of artificial brightness to her delivery, but still Mellie could hug the woman. "Nothing much, but you're welcome to it. Won’t take a minute to get set up."

Mellie's eyes light up, right into the camera, and half-haltingly she turns to Kimberly and says, "Do you think we could -- ? If it wouldn't be too much of a hassle to move the crew, I'd like you all to come outside."

"Not a problem," says Kimberly Mitchell. In the length of time it took Mellie to ask, Kimberley has already considered the implications to the fullest. She bats barely an eyelash while the camera is pointed at her, then allows herself to look half-dazed with excitement. A fluff piece she was none too excited about earlier has turned to gold before her eyes. She directs her crew to move outside. 

Mellie, meanwhile, conscious of a lone camera still at her back, pretends to inspect the racks of handguns for a few minutes before pointing out the Colt 1911 she's had her eye on from the first. Mrs. Bramwell calls her son up from the back room to get an extra pair of hands to prepare the range. They file out with the film crew. 

“Just your kind of thing, and as a bonus there’s no way even you can do any damage.” That’s what Fitz said when he pushed the campaign in her direction. Women-run small businesses, promotion of. Straightforward, popular, safe. 

He should have expected her to take it as a challenge.

There’s power in being underestimated, and safety in the appearance of harmlessness, but Mellie has been itching to make a move. This one came ready-packaged. Standing in the open doorway with the cold snaking in, she hesitates a moment, then texts Olivia: _Turn on the TV. You’ll know it when you see it._ She buttons up her coat and moves on. 

Out back she surveys the scene with absolute satisfaction. A film set for the purpose could not have been better. Last night’s snowfall has been swept from the yard; beyond, the snow lies smooth and unmarred, brilliant in the sun of the crisp, cloudless day. An infinite sky, menacingly blue, arcs overhead. The world shines, hard and brittle, from the film crew’s equipment to the five targets at the far end of the yard to the snarl of bare-limbed trees beyond the fence. Mellie puts on her sunglasses, accepts a pair of ear protectors from Mrs. Bramwell’s son and slings them around her neck. 

Mrs. Bramwell has the gun and ammo ready for her, waiting only on Kimberly’s word. 

“Ready when you are,” says Kimberly.

Mellie nods. 

The proceedings have begun. Mellie takes the gun, loads it, not hurrying, her movements smooth and practiced. A touch of giddiness melts away in the familiarity of the ritual. 

She blocks out the onlookers, scanning the targets as she fixes her stance. The less flashy, more practical power suit she opted for today is comfortable; her thick-heeled boots give her solid purchase on the packed earth. She notes the light breeze shushing through the yard. 

Settled in now, sure of her stance, Mellie puts on the ear protectors, removes the safety, and scans the five targets through the sights. She draws a breath, relaxes for a moment, then fires five times, once into the center of each target. 

Silence, then a ragged cheer from the news crew. Mrs. Bramwell examines Mellie’s handiwork and nods, pleased, where a camera picks it up. 

“Can you hit a moving target?” asks Kimberly, once ear protectors have been removed all around and the excited preliminaries have been gone through. 

Mellie thinks a moment, then gestures to one of the crew. “Mind if I borrow your hat?”

He snatches it off his head, then looks at it uncertainly. Kimberly nods fervently at him. 

“Just go to the end of the yard and throw it. I can’t guarantee you’ll get it back in perfect condition,” Mellie says, and smiles. 

The man shuffles to the end of the yard, looks around, tenses to throw. Mellie expected a warning, but this is better. She gets the gun up just as he pitches the hat as nearly straight up in the air as he can manage. A shot rings out before the hat comes down on the snow a few feet from him. He rushes to pick it up, then holds it high for a close-up. 

The brilliant winter sun shines through two bullet holes, front and back. 

 

“I like to think I’ve trained my staff out of inarticulate terror in my presence,” Cyrus begins, dumping himself on an Oval Office couch. 

Fitz puts down his notes and stares, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He contemplates pointing out that inarticulate terror may be a sign of intelligence in anyone under Cyrus’s command, but doesn’t. 

“I mean,” Cyrus goes on, “I’m approachable, right? Understanding? Not the sort of person to fire you for bringing bad news?”

“You’re a cuddly teddy bear, Cy. Now tell me where this is going. Or have you forgotten I have a State of the Union to get ready for tonight?”

“Mr. President, you can stop preparing. It isn’t going to matter one bit how prepared you are. No one’s going to remember a single word you say. No one’s even going to hear it. They’ll be too busy watching you wife on YouTube.”

“What’s she doing?”

“Has done. No taking it back now. Turn on the TV. Any major news channel will do.”

And there is Mellie in glorious high definition adjusting her stance and raising a gleaming handgun. As she digs in the thick heels of her boots, her coat stirs in a faint breeze, flashing a sliver of royal blue lining. Her eyes are hidden behind stylish sunglasses. The angle changes once, twice, another time, the camera crew clearly having the time of their lives. A brief shot of the fives targets, then back to Mellie.

She shoots, like a force of nature, like a person in another world. 

Fitz loses count of the shots almost immediately, mesmerized by the sight. Dim memories arise of accompanying Mellie to shooting ranges early in their marriage, her comfortable laughter at his own ineptness with a gun. She was good. She was better than good. But at her best she never looked like this, because she never had to. This is staged. This is not a stunt so much as a statement. 

He watches her hold up the punctured hat, beaming, all innocence and uncomplicated joy. 

“Why?” Fitz asks. 

Cyrus says, “Let’s wait and get it from the horse’s mouth, hm?” 

Fitz doesn’t say anything.

 

In the car on the way back to Washington, Olivia calls her. 

“You looked good out there.” There’s an accusation in her voice, or Mellie assumes there is. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but you’re playing for keeps.”

“Nice of you to notice.”

“Couldn’t have done the staging better myself.”

“Now that I know is just flattery.”

“Mellie, what’s the plan? You know Cyrus isn’t going to let this go easily.”

“I’d like to see him fix this.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“No. I know Cyrus.” 

Silence for a long moment as they contemplate this. 

“What’s the next step?” Olivia asks. 

“Maybe I don’t want to tell you.”

“Maybe. But you texted me in time to watch, which suggests to me that maybe I’m part of the plan.”

“Good thinking. What do you say, Liv? Are you in, or is the conflict of interest a bit too daunting?”

“I’m in,” Olivia says, a little too emphatically.

“Good. I’ll call you when I need you.”

Mellie hangs up. She knew Olivia would agree, once she phrased the request that way.

It’s a dirty trick, but perhaps less so than bursting Olivia’s sweetly naive blind spot by saying, “And by the way, don’t think for a second you could be sleeping with my husband without me knowing it.” 

An ice-breaker for another day, that.

 

“I still can’t believe she did it.”

Cyrus, perched on the edge of his desk and gazing off into the middle distance, says, “Yep.”

“She really -- “

“Yes.”

“The State of the Union -- “

“Ha!”

Fitz wants to accuse Cyrus of being uncooperative, but that would imply he knows what cooperation would sound like. “Is there anything we can do about it?”

“Aside from putting the fear of god into her so that it won’t happen again?”

“When you say the fear of god, I hear the fear of Cyrus Beene. And Cy, I don’t want you to frighten my wife to death.”

“As if I could! Have you met your wife?”

Fitz groans. “Yes, I’ve met my wife.” He carefully shelves any possible follow-up. 

Cyrus looks meaningfully at his watch. “She should be back by now. I’ll go -- “

“No,” says Fitz. “No. I’ll go talk to her. You go harass someone who’ll respond better. Dictators. Terrorists.”

“I’ll get right on it,” says Cyrus, not bothering to disguise his disappointment.

By the time Fitz finds her, she’s changed into something a little more pastel, and is examining engraving samples for an upcoming round of invitations. 

When she sees him, she holds one up and says, “What do you think?”

Fitz stares, raises his hands in a gesture of frustration. 

“You’re right. Too Gothic. And those capitals are a mile high. Something like this, now...” She shuffles calmly through the pack, as if she hasn’t spent her morning upstaging the leader of the free world. 

“Mellie.”

“Hm?”

“Look at me.”

She does, raising her eyebrows fractionally.

“What was that for, this morning?” 

“Just a little fun, Fitz. Nothing for you to be gloomy about.”

“Why did you do it?” he says, ignoring her non-response. “What have I done to deserve this?”

“It’s not all about you, sweetie. This happens to be something I did all for myself, if you can wrap your head around that.” Smiling pleasantly all the while, of course. Off camera and off the record, Mellie still doesn’t crack unless she thinks it’ll help. 

“Fine, don’t tell me,” says Fitz. “But do something about it.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Jesus, Mellie, I don’t know. Did you know that in the last two hours five domain names -- that Cyrus’s minions can find -- have been registered based on puns about your little stunt? Everyone’s delighted. Even most of the liberal blogs are singing your praises right now, all that girl-power stuff...”

Mellie just keeps on smiling. 

“My administration isn’t a platform for your future political career. Neither is _our marriage_.”

She laughs then, and says, “Don’t talk to me about our marriage and what I do and don’t expect to get out of it.”

“If you don’t find a way to fix it, I’ll tell Cyrus to go ahead with whatever he’s cooking up. He’s very excited about it.”

“Oh, scary. Calm down, Fitz, there’s no reason to get your attack dog involved. As it happens, I know just how to take care of it.” 

“Mellie, I swear...”

“Calm down,” she repeats. 

Fitz decides then to cut his loses. He does, after all, have a speech to give. 

 

Matters having fallen out as planned, Mellie calls Olivia. 

“So?”

“Get me an interview before the address tonight.”

There’s a long pause on the other end. Mellie can almost hear Olivia thinking. 

Finally, she says, “You can’t go through your office for that?”

“Everything has to be perfect, and it has to be perfect _fast_. You’re the wizard, Liv. I need you.” 

A beat, during which Mellie tries to imagine Olivia's face. It's uncomfortably satisfying. Then Olivia says, “Fine. Tell me what you need, and we’ll work something out.” 

Not Kimberly Mitchell this time, is the first thing Mellie needs, her well-known sympathy to the First Family notwithstanding. More mainstream is the plan, and as close to nonpartisan as Olivia can find. That’s a tall order given the state of what passes for mainstream media these days, but Olivia, of course, is the wizard. The whirlwind of Olivia’s productivity sweeps up events and, inevitably, deposits Mellie in a cozily set up room of the East Wing, smiling into yet another camera, looking shyly away and laughing as clips of YouTube reactions to her morning’s exploits are shown to her. 

“I got carried away,” she says. “It was an impulse. A First Lady doesn’t have many opportunities to give in to impulses...” She gives the interviewer a moment to catch the cue, then finishes herself: “Maybe that’s for the better.”

A lull, a change of tactic. 

“I’m just sorry it’s taken so much attention away from my husband’s speech tonight. The issues he’s going to address deserve more attention than a little harmless fun...”

And she launches into a rambling outline of the upcoming State of the Union, of which she has, naturally, read several drafts. All towing the party line, of course, and nothing so earth-shattering that it will actually eclipse the speech. But everyone watching will be watching her, too.


End file.
